Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Smart. I can work with that.”
He offers me his arm. “Ready?”
Outside, a black carriage waits in the circular drive, complete with two midnight-colored stallions that stepped out of a fairy tale written in shadow and starlight. These aren’t ordinary horses—they’re magnificent creatures with coats so dark they absorb light, their manes flowing like liquid silk in the evening breeze. Steam rises from their nostrils in the cool air, and when they shift their weight, muscles ripple beneath their glossy coats like coiled steel ready to spring. Their eyes are intelligent, almost knowing, and when one turns to study me, I swear I see recognition pass through those dark depths—like it knows exactly what I am.
The driver perched on his seat wears a tall black hat and cape that billows dramatically in the wind, his face hidden in shadow. The whole thing is so dramatically over the top that I stop walking.
“Seriously?” I stare at the carriage with its ornate silver details and lacquered black finish that reflects the estate’s lights like a dark mirror. “We’re taking a carriage to a forest party?”
“Right for the occasion.”
“How far is this thing anyway?”
“Not far. But you’re wearing wings.” He helps me up into the carriage, careful not to crush the feathers. “And I thought you might enjoy the entrance.”
I settle into the velvet seats, my wings spreading behind me. The interior is sumptuous—black velvet cushions so soft they embrace me, silver trim that catches the moonlight filtering through the small windows, and enough space that my costume doesn’t feel cramped. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The driver clicks his tongue and the stallions begin moving, their hooves creating a steady rhythm on the gravel drive that sounds like distant thunder. The carriage rocks gently as we make our way down the winding path toward the forest, and I have to admit there’s something magical about arriving this way.
As we settle into the rhythm of the journey, Blue reaches across the space between us and takes my hand. The gesture is simple, normal—something boyfriends do with their girlfriends on the way to parties. His fingers intertwine with mine, thumb tracing gentle circles across my knuckles, and for a moment we’re just two people holding hands in a carriage.
It’s the first genuinely normal thing that’s happened between us.
Everything else has been wrapped in shadows and danger—kidnapping and murder, handcuffs and belt around my throat near suffocation, passion that burns so hot it leaves marks. Even our tender moments carry an edge of darkness, a reminder that Blue is something beautiful and terrible that I should probably run from but can’t bring myself to leave.
But this? This is what regular couples do. Exist in moments that don’t require wondering if someone’s going to end up dead by morning.
The strange thing is, I’m not sure I want normal. The darkness that surrounds Blue isn’t what I’m enduring—it’s what I’m falling into willingly. There’s an intoxication in loving a man who can kill without hesitation but touches me like I’m made of glass. Who can teach me murder as casually as teaching someone to ride a bike. In being claimed by someone whose idea of romance involves corpses and midnight flowers.
I study his profile in the carriage’s dim light—the perfect line of his bearded jaw beneath that plague doctor mask, the way his free hand rests casually on his thigh, the controlled grace in everything he does. Even dressed as Death’s personal surgeon, he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.
Maybe especially because he’s dressed as Death’s personal surgeon.
“So this is how you normally travel to parties?” I ask, watching the trees pass by through the carriage window, his hand still warm in mine.
“Only the important ones.”
“And what makes this one important?” I adjust my wings so they don’t get destroyed against the seat back.
“You’re going.”
Jesus . . . this man may be perfect.
The Witchwood forest beyond Grimlock’s borders has been transformed into something that exists in the space between dreams and reality.
Bioluminescent mushrooms line every path through the trees, their caps glowing with ethereal blue light that pulses gently, creating the effect of a living constellation spread across the forest floor. The paths themselves seem to shift and change as we walk, the mushroom lights leading us deeper into woods that feel primordial and wild.
String lights hang from every branch—tiny bulbs that twinkle and flicker in patterns that seem almost choreographed. They’re strung at different heights, creating layers of light that weave between the trees. Some hang low enough to walk under, others stretch high overhead, and the overall effect makes the forest feel like it’s been wrapped in captured starlight.
But it’s the death moths that make the scene truly otherworldly. Hundreds of them flutter through the air, their dark wings marked with pale skull patterns that glow faintly in the mushroom light. They move in spirals around the string lights, creating shifting shadows that dance across the forest floor. Some settle on tree branches, their wings spread to display the intricate bone-white markings, while others drift between costumed guests like living omens that somehow make the celebration feel more magical rather than sinister.